


Tell Me You Know the Way

by yonderlight



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Afterlife, Blake is baby and I love this Soft Boy, Blake's Death, Blakefield, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, M/M, POV Blake, Post-Canon, World War I, ghost!Blake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23035345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderlight/pseuds/yonderlight
Summary: Blake's ghost is bound to the place he died. He reflects on his life, on his death, on his relationship with Schofield, and hopes against all hope that one day he'll see him again...
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 36
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “They are the voices of my comrades. I am no longer a shuddering speck of existence, alone in the darkness. I belong to them and they to me; we all share the same fear and the same life, we are nearer than lovers, in a simpler, a harder way; I could bury my face in them, in these voices, these words that have saved me and will stand by me.” – All Quiet On the Western Front

“Let’s just sit...let me sit…”

Already Blake feels his strength dissolve and flow out of him like a ruptured dam. His heartbeat, only minutes ago monstrously loud and thunderous in his ears, ebbs to a softer throb; replaced in part with a shrill ringing in his head and waves of utter fatigue.

 _So tired_ …

He distantly registers Schofield’s urgent voice beside him, “Your brother. We have to find your brother.” It’s a plea.

But Blake knows with sickening certainty, as sure as the stones will rot he knows he’s not leaving this place, knows he won’t make it to Joe.

“You’ll recognize him. Looks like me, only a bit older...” he manages to say, head growing increasingly dizzy and muddled.

 _So tired_ …

Closing his eyes, he succumbs to it for a few moments, only for a dim crackling sound to pull him out of the darkness. His vision still shrouded, he tries to focus on the faint stars floating lightly in the murky tunnel that surrounds him. _Stars…? No…glow-bugs…?_ In a flash, a small memory surfaces and Blake sees a field of glow-bugs at dusk, fairylike and bright, dancing among the cherry orchard back home.

“What are they?” Blake whispers. The memory fades and his vision widens slightly. Then he remembers. He’s not at home. He’s at war.

“Are we being shelled?”

“They’re embers, the barn is on fire,” Schofield offers. _The barn? What is a barn doing out on the battlefield?_ But Blake can barely finish the thought when he feels a sharp twist in his side, red hot and flaring. _Blood…? My blood?_

“I’ve been hit...what was it?” He can’t help trembling now. Cold seeps in around him as he becomes hyper-aware of several sensations all at once: a breeze drifting across his blood drenched hand, his pack’s webbing digging into his shoulder blades, a loose strand of hair tickling his forehead. But more than anything, he feels his own blood, warm and slick, traveling down his side and pooling out onto the dirt.

“You were stabbed.”

Blake forces his eyes to look up at Schofield, troubled by his memory loss and anxious at the severity of this gaping wound.

“Am I dying?” the sob catches in his burning throat as he reaches out, reaching for something, anything, to cling to amidst this terrible tide. His fingers curl tighter around Schofield’s hand.

“Yes. Yes, I think you are.”

The tears burst forth now, and like a wave crashing down Blake remembers the plane, the German, the awful shock of the blade piercing his stomach. And then, a heavy certainty settles further deep inside…

As green as he is to real combat, he’s been on the front long enough to watch men die. He’s seen them torn apart in the mud, gasping for breath in the medical tents. A part of him knew death would come for him eventually, as it did for countless others. But in the smallest corner of his secret heart he allowed himself the hope that he would be one of the lucky ones. That maybe it’d be all right in the end. That maybe one day he would make it out alive and return home to his mother.

His mother.

 _I’ll never see her again._ The thought alone sinks like a rock in his stomach and steals another precious breath from his lungs.

He wants to see her face. See his brother’s face.

Despite his arms feeling leaden and sluggish, Blake reaches up to feebly tap his breast pocket. The small movement saps even more of his strength.

He realizes he can’t feel his legs anymore.

What to do with an unknown amount of minutes to live? A million crowded emotions and thoughts bubble up within him, each one a more insistent overlay that bursts inside the other…a million hopes and regrets and impossible futures.

Schofield reaches inside Blake’s uniform tunic, “This?”

 _Yes._ “Inside.”

He stares at the photograph, gripping it as tightly as he can manage. _How will she know what happened to me? Who will comfort her, when I…?_ He hugs it close and stares into Schofield’s eyes, trying to anchor his thoughts amidst the swell of fear.

“Will you write to my mum for me?” It’s Blake’s turn to plead.

“I will.”

“Tell her I wasn’t scared.” She can’t know it ended like this, tearful and quivering; he can’t bear to tarnish her proud vision of a dutiful son fighting for king and country. He was brave, wasn't he? Ready to traverse unknown enemy territory to save Joe, eager for his actions to directly amount to some good he could impart on this earth.

“Anything else?” Scho asks gently, moving his hand up to grasp Blake’s.

“I love them. I wish that...I wish...” the bubbling thoughts surface again, overwhelming him: _that I could tell them in person…that I could see home again…that I hadn’t gotten myself killed…that I…_

It’s too much. Blake closes his eyes, the cold darkness threateningly close.

 _So tired_ …

He weakly pries them open. Tries to focus on Schofield’s hand lovingly entwined in his, on the kind cerulean eyes staring down at him, bright against an endless gray sky. _Oh Scho…_ He can’t stand seeing the distress that clouds them now. _Please, god,_ anything to make this easier. Don’t let this all be for nothing _._

“Talk to me. Tell me you know the way.”

Schofield gently gives his hand a small reassuring squeeze, “I know the way. I’m going to head southeast until I hit Ecoust. I’ll pass through the town and out to the east, all the way to Croisilles Wood.”

Blake feels his eyes close once more. He can’t fight it any longer.

“It’ll be dark by then,” he murmurs.

“That won’t bother me...I’ll find the 2nd, I’ll give them the message, and then I’ll find your brother…”

Blake follows Schofield’s words down, fading softly into the enveloping background of oblivion…

Quiet...

A jolt.

Blake is suddenly standing, staring down at the top of Schofield’s head. He balks at the sight of his own pale face, grotesquely stagnant and limp, and stumbles backward.

“Jesus!” Blake cries out, scrambling onto all fours. “Schofield!” He feels much too light, a stark contrast to the ubiquitous weight of his gear and rifle, and glances down at his hands.

He doesn’t feel the ground beneath them.

He can’t feel anything.

Blake falls back on his ankles, slowly twisting his hands in front of him to find them free of blood, free of the mud and grime from No Man’s Land. He hasn’t seen them this clean in a long time.

His webbing is gone, all his heavy layers and leather jerkin too. He lifts his drab uniform shirt to reveal an unsullied waist, pink flesh still intact.

A frantic rustling sound snaps Blake’s gaze back to the previous horror and he watches as Schofield casts the blood soaked map aside.

“Scho…?” Blake shakily gets to his feet, “Scho…please, look at me.”

The dirt around him remains still, the dust unreactive to his movements as he takes a step toward Schofield.

“Jesus Mary Joseph, this can’t be real,” his voice quivers. There’s no response from Schofield as he somberly removes Blake’s rings and id tag from the body. _My body,_ he thinks. Blake can scarcely bear the sight.

“Scho! _Will_ , for god sakes, I’m right here!” He tugs frustratingly at his hair then steps around to crouch beside Scho, furiously waving his hands in front of his face, and gasps aloud when one goes right through. Schofield simply looks past him, jaw clenched and eyes still wet with tears. And then with grim determination, starts to drag his body away from the barn and the destruction around it. Blake hastily jumps out of the way, once again stricken by the sight of his own lifeless face.

_Why is this happening to me?_

Desperate to look away, his eyes land on the German pilot.

“ _You_.”

Blake reaches the body in a few short steps. He goes for a kick but his boot soars clean through the Hun’s leg as easily as air. He huffs, a single choked laugh that staccatos into a sob. _Mental. This is completely mental._

He’s suddenly startled by a voice, “You alright mate?”

Blake whirls around, “No, I’m not, please, you have to help-”

“Hey, it’s all right, it’s ok,” a second man. Oblivious of Blake, the pair walks toward Schofield. _Of course. They can’t see me._

“Come on, help him.”

Slack-jawed, Blake jogs alongside them, eyes darting between the two young Privates. _Where the devil did this lot come from?_

They both move to grab each leg as Schofield carefully walks backwards away from the burning barn. One of the Privates motions with his chin at the sight of all the blood, “Jesus, what happened to him?”

“Was it the plane? We saw the smoke,” the other chimes in.

Schofield is soft with his answer, “Yeah.”

“Careful!” The word leaves Blake’s mouth before he can stop it as they lower his body down. But the dreadful way his pallid face lolls back forces him to turn away once more. He sees the Captain approaching before Schofield does.

“Go and fetch his things.”

“Sir.”

Still staring at the Captain, Blake is too slow to dart out of the way before one of the Privates plain walks into him. It’s jarring.

“A friend?” the Captain inquires gently. Blake forces himself to look down. Both Scho and Blake nod in unison, one seen and unseen. _The best one I’ve ever known..._

“What are you doing here?”

“I have an urgent message for the 2nd Devons. Orders to stop tomorrow morning’s attack,” Schofield replies, head still cast downward and stare fixed firmly on Blake’s body.

The Captain pushes, “Where are they stationed?”

“Just beyond Ecoust,” Schofield’s voice is emotionless, lost. Blake can’t stop staring at Schofield's face, at the defeated look in his eyes. He’s never felt this level of complete and utter helplessness before.

“Scho…”

“Come with me,” the Captain turns on his heel.

“Scho, wait a second, don’t leave yet!” Blake reaches out dumbly with his hand.

The Captain looks back, “Come with me, Corporal. That’s an order. We’re passing through Ecoust. We can take you some of the way.”

“Sir,” Schofield stands.

“Wait. Scho, you have to hear me!” Desperation rising, Blake follows him to the house, falling behind the two Privates.

“We can’t leave my body here, you can’t leave me like this!” he cries out, still trying to step around obstacles in the farmhouse, wholly forgetting his lack of solidity.

The group steps out the front door and the bitter irony of being the one to chase after Schofield’s retreating form, and not the other way around, is not lost on Blake.

“Scho…” he’s cut off again by voices.

“Oh, come on Sergeant! Put more men at the base. At the trunk! It’ll be heavier there,” a portly Colonel shouts from the seat of a motorcar.

Dumbfounded by the sudden activity of soldiers all around him, Blake loses focus on Schofield’s conversation with the Colonel to turn his attention back towards the barn.

No one sees him. Not one man looks over at his bloodstained body unceremoniously dumped beside the shed. No one investigates the dark pool of blood staining the soil where only moments ago he was alive and breathing and asking Schofield if there was anything in the house. _Why couldn’t they have arrived a mere fifteen minutes earlier?_ He frowns and chews at his bottom lip. _Would that have made any difference?_

Blake is roused from his reverie long enough to notice Schofield and the Captain taking off towards the back of the convoy. He hurries after him, throws one hand forward only to have it glide through Schofield’s back shoulder.

“Scho, I know this is no use but-” Blake stops abruptly.

The two men continue on unfettered. “…took us the whole night. Bumped into a couple of Hun stragglers on the way…” the Captain’s voice trails off as they walk further down the road.

Blake looks down at his feet.

He’s standing on the edge, where green grass gives way to dusty white road. Try as he might, he can’t seem to move any further toward Schofield. A peculiar sense overcomes him, a feeling in his gut of utmost certainty that he can’t leave this place. With a grunted effort, he toes his boot an inch forward and reaches out his hands as far as they’ll stretch. But he can go no further.

A mustachioed Corporal walks slowly through him and Blake startles at the sight of a rifle poking halfway through his torso. The man bends down to tie his shoe as Blake springs aside.

“You bastards! Can’t anyone see me?” One by one, the men return back to their lorries.

“This is a bloody nightmare,” Blake cries. There’s laughter in the distance, cigarettes being lit and boots treading on wooden truck beds. He spins frantically in a circle.

The motorcars rumble to life around him, spewing puffs of smoke, and a lone man trots up to the front of the line while still buttoning up his trousers.

“No, no, no, no!”

Blake watches wretchedly as the last truck, Schofield’s truck, motors past the farmhouse.

“SCHO!” a frantic scream. Chasing behind the car, he sprints parallel to the house. He catches sight of a crestfallen Schofield, nestled between two Privates, looking back inconsolably down the road and Blake feels like he’s dying all over again.

His despair at being left behind, alone and invisible, rapidly transforms into solemn resolve.

Blake stops sharply as he senses another intuitive edge in front of the farmhouse, “You go on Scho! You save my brother! Find him and save him! Save them all goddamnit!” Softer now, “And then you come back for my body! You come back to me,” he exhales.

He stands there staring down the road long after the convoy disappears over a distant hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be gentle with me, this is my first ever fic I've put out into the world! 1917 has completely latched itself onto my heart and I'm so grateful for this little Blakefield fandom <3 Endless thanks to the wonderful @thenightwindow for beta-ing my fic!
> 
> More chapters are coming! Be prepared for fluffy flashbacks and angst


	2. Chapter 2

It’s quiet now.

With each slow step back towards the barn, Blake takes notice of the odd lightness in his stride. How his boots never quite feel like they’re touching the ground beneath them. He almost feels like pure deliberation alone, his muscle memory of how walking tethered to gravity _should_ feel, is the only thing keeping him from floating away.

In moments, he arrives at the foot of his body.

It’s a ghastly sight, his round face both bluish and paper white, legs sprawled out, and arms awkwardly angled. _Like a scarecrow_ , he thinks. And the blood, so much blood, completely saturating his uniform in terrible crimson.

He gingerly edges closer…

Blake and the others had grown accustomed to not having mirrors in the trenches and seeing his own face on leave was always a surprise to him. He’d lost a bit of weight since the war; having been lucky enough to previously afford a comfortable existence on their farm, well fed and well loved by his mother. He’d never been a particularly slender fellow but standing in front of his mirror back home, he had once delighted at the way in which his arm muscles had started to grow definition, in how his round face had only just begun to develop into a man’s strong features, slightly stubbled and toughened.

At least in his eyes anyway. Schofield had often teased him for his boyish softness.

His mind wanders to a warm memory of Schofield shaving his face and trimming the back of his hair during a lull in combat. To their commanding officers, the lack of mirrors was no excuse for a lack of decorum and military protocol.

“Nothing here but peach fuzz, mate,” Scho said, giving Blake’s chin a gentle shake.

Rinsing the razor in a tin cup filled with soapy tea, as clean water had been so scarce to come by lately, Scho carefully scraped the blade along the curve of Blake’s dimpled chin.

“Well, it’s more than enough to excite the lady folk,” Blake smirks. “Did I ever tell you about-?”

“Hold still you dingbat,” Scho says sternly, allowing the corners of his mouth to twitch into a slight smile.

When its Blake’s turn, his hand quivers slightly, giddy at the chance to openly touch Scho’s face, and grateful for any occasion of tenderness they each took every opportunity to steal in those precarious months.

Blake is lost for a minute staring at Schofield’s lips and inadvertently nicks his jawline.

“Ow.”

“Sorry!” Blake hastily wipes the small droplet of blood with his thumb. He lets his palm linger there, feeling the side of Schofield’s face, newly smooth and still moist. Scho lets out a small sigh, closes his eyes for the briefest of seconds, and Blake sees the tension drain out. It takes all of his willpower not to drop the razor in his other hand to cup his face between them and bring Schofield close. But the moment is shattered as quickly as it transpired.

A loud shout booms out near the mess tent, “Alright lads, rum rations!” Blake’s hand flinches as if electrocuted and he lets it drop, rapidly wiping the soapsuds on his trouser legs.

Schofield looks up, “We’re going over the top then.” It’s not a question. Rum meant there would be an offensive push soon; rum meant the same men you toasted with might not be coming back.

Scho glances back at Blake, and seeing the worry tight in his brow remarks lightly, “But don’t worry, it’ll be duck soup.” None of the men clamoring around them notices the comforting squeeze he gives Blake’s hand at his side…

It’s quiet now.

The longer Blake stares at his own ashen face in front of him, the more a horrible uncanny feeling rises in his throat. He wonders grimly how long it will take for his body to rot out here. And how long he’ll be forced to watch it…

He feels on the verge of tears again, contemplates for a moment if he can even physically cry in this new intangible form, and then takes off toward the pilot.

“Well this is a right sorry state, fated to haunt this French shitehole with the likes of _you_ , huh?” Blake circles the Boche’s body like a cat, glaring down at the dead man who single-handedly destroyed _everything_ in an instant.

“And where are you, you bloody bastard?” Gesturing frantically around him, he looks back at the empty farmhouse.

“Hiding in the cupboards?” his voice is almost hysterical now.

“Running for the hills?” his shouts crescendo and intermingle into a loud crash as a large wooden beam simultaneously falls from the barn’s skeletal roof.

Blake drops to the ground, mournfully staring at the cloud of embers drifting down and at the flames licking the rafters above. If he were to close his eyes, he could almost imagine the sound is a roaring fire back home in his sitting room instead of this harbinger of carnage and violence.

 _Did he get to leave? Or is he stuck somewhere here like me?_ Blake glances over at the motionless pilot.

He takes in the multiple burn marks on his legs and uniform; he’s downright villainous-looking in his all-black leather garb, dark fur collar, and flight helmet. Blake tries to look past the soot and dried blood to stare closely at his face.

He had only wanted to help him. Only wanted to comfort a scared man in pain. But would he really have reacted any differently if their roles had been reversed? Outnumbered and wounded behind enemy lines… He’ll never forget those wild panicked eyes as he cradled his head, “…it’s alright, it’s alright…”, the last thing he saw before blinding pain.

Getting slowly to his feet, Blake paces around in a circle once more.

At his feet, the two golden shell casings from Schofield’s rifle shimmer in the dust, reflecting the flickering orange flames, as does the long blade soaked with his blood.

“Bastard rats better get to you first Fritz.”

He smiles a little foolishly to himself at that, and briefly likens the entire messy spectacle to an outlandish crime scene, such as one he might have read in a Sherlock Holmes novel when he was younger.

He’s careful not to rest his eyes on his body so he looks back at the smoldering biplane instead, ultimately stepping towards it.

Bracing himself, Blake overcomes the sensation, or lack thereof, as he walks through the flames to get a closer look. But before he can investigate any further, a loud crack rumbles from above. The burning roof finally caves in. Blake dives sideways on pure instinct, rapidly assuming the duck and cover pose.

Rolling onto his back just in time to see the entire structure collapse, he watches austerely as the plane is completely buried under an inferno of lumber. _Well, good riddance._

Let it burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful to each and every person who left comments and kudos or even took the time to read my fic! I'm excited to share the rest :]


	3. Chapter 3

Blake sits there for a long while with his legs stretched out and shoulders slumped, transfixed by the frenzied orange flames overtaking what’s left of the barn. He wonders how Schofield’s getting on, how far along he is now.

_Maybe he’s made it to Ecoust…_

A mangled whimper erupts in his throat as he desperately wishes he was anywhere but this godforsaken place, bookended by death between his own body and the pilot’s, silhouetted by hellish fire, and, worst of all, utterly unable to help Schofield.

His pitiful gaze rests in the distance upon the felled cherry trees. Wondering if his newfound spectral border extends that far, Blake thinks about the feeling of holding the fragile white petals in his hand. And suddenly, just as before, a _jolt_ and his surroundings blink into existence around him.

He’s standing in the middle of the fallen orchard.

“Christ!”

Blake is stunned. Mouth agape, he stumbles to the wall’s entryway in the direction towards the German trenches, but feels another invisible barrier at the entrance. Turning sharply, he heads back toward the house in a straight line, this time walking right through the hacked branches and tree trunks littering the white speckled ground.

He frowns. Stopping outside the walled entrance, he surveys the land before him just as he had done earlier with Schofield at his side. The small pond, the decrepit farmhouse…and now, dark smoke billowing out from the barn’s flaming rubble and a clear view of his body next to the shed.

However he was able to materialize here, he welcomes the bit of distance. He knows intuitively that he’s still trapped within this strange ethereal boundary, but at least he can rest beside the cherry blossoms and away from the dreadfulness below. This far away, his body appears like some child’s discarded rag doll. He’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to seeing it there.

Stepping back into the orchard, Blake angles himself out of the line of sight of his body, and delicately allows his hand to reach up towards a blossom. As if on cue, a single petal falls. His fingers weave and dance around its slow descent until it disappears through the center of his palm.

He thinks of home…

“Joe! Hey Joe, would you look at this one?” Blake is small and 10-years-old. Giggling, he haphazardly scrambles down the wooden ladder to thrust a deformed cherry at Joe.

Blake smiles a wide toothy grin up at his teenage brother, knowing with childish humor _exactly_ which male organ the double cherry resembles.

Joe sighs. He balances a brimming basket on his hip with one hand and uses the other to ruffle his brother’s sandy hair.

“Come on you. We have loads more to do before sunset.”

With pure boyish glee, Blake squishes the misshapen cherry between his fingers, relishing in its messy destruction and the feeling of red juice dripping down his hand.

Exasperated, Joseph rolls his eyes, “Tom! We could have still eaten that you know!”

But his irritation only makes Blake giggle harder. He lowers his hand down to a barking Myrtle who excitedly licks at his fingers.

“Come on, girl!” Blake sprints down the grassy path, zigzagging in a wide circle as the small puppy chases behind him.

“Gotcha, you little bugger!” Jumping out from behind a tree, Joe wraps his arms around a screaming Blake and scoops him off the ground.

“Put me down, put me down!”

Their combined laughter and Myrtle’s barking reverberates around the entire orchard.

The rest of the afternoon passes with ease. And when long golden sunbeams start to speckle through the branches, they ride their horse Claude back to the house, the day’s efforts tied up in large burlap sacks slung around the saddle. Blake is eager to bring their bounty to his mother; there’ll be cherry pies and jams to make and trips into town soon.

It’s nearly dark by the time they arrive home to her warm smiling face alongside supper cooling on the table and a gramophone softly playing in the next room over…

Blake has been seated for hours, cross-legged and lost in thought staring at the snowy blossoms tumbling in the breeze.

As the sun starts to set and golden rays cast sinister shadows over what's left of the stone wall, Blake swears he can see ghostly figures in the distance, and once, just once, a child’s face looking out from the farmhouse window. They fade in and out of his vision, faintly taking shape in the corner of his eye but vanishing from view whenever he tries to focus on their forms directly. It’s the ultimate punishment to be so alone and yet tantalizingly accompanied by others, but it’s the silence that upsets Blake the most.

He wishes he could cry.

Pressing his palms to his eyes, Blake dry sobs, a miserable hitching sound, and lightly rocks back and forth.

For the umpteenth time, he worries about Scho, about his brother, and the rest of the men settling in for the night only to lay down their lives senselessly in the morning.

_If only I had been more careful. If only I had…_

As the sun finally dips below the horizon, Blake wonders if he’s doomed to relive his mistake for the rest of eternity here, wonders if he’ll ever see Scho again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway there now! Thank you all for sticking with the fic this far along :] I know this chapter is a little short and I hope it doesn't feel too much like a filler, but the next ones are going to be longer, don't worry!  
> There's not enough thanks I can give @thenightwindow for being my beta and for being THE most encouraging cheerleader throughout all this and helping me out along the way!  
> Also huge shout out to @datfilmnerd for acting as my British cultural advisor for this entire fic! I'm American, so I was super grateful for her insights!


	4. Chapter 4

_It’s so dark now…_

The blazing inferno that was once the barn has long since subsided into a smoking pile.

As Blake lies on his back staring up at the stars, he bitterly misses his earthly senses. It’s troubling, the lack of feeling grass beneath him, the lack of smell from the sweet blossoms, and the lack of being solid and whole. He knows the clothes he’s wearing aren’t real, knows there’s no air in the habitual breaths he takes. A sudden thought; the urge to whistle strikes him and he makes an attempt, surprising himself when it works.

He whistles a jaunty tune and it’s self-soothing only for a little while, anything to break up the absence of voices.

The melody makes him think back to the first time he ever saw Schofield…

When Blake first joined their regiment, it had taken a few determined weeks to penetrate Scho’s defenses. The guarded Lance Corporal was a handsome mystery Blake desperately wanted to uncover. Not giving up easily, a steadfast Blake had pressed forward and begrudgingly won him over. And from then on, the two men were inseparable.

Blake delighted in Schofield’s calming companionship and was happy to regale him with tales of home, anything to distract from the dismal, laborious tasks at hand. And one afternoon during digging duty while Blake was recounting one of his stories, they each realized they had coincidentally attended the same charity event a couple of years prior to their enlistment.

“I thought you looked a bit familiar. You were one the musicians, yeah?” Schofield questions.

Still too young to join the fight but urgently wanting to be of use to his brother and the other men who had gone off to serve, Blake volunteered his fiddle and musical talents to perform in the concert portion of the variety show.

After kissing his mother goodnight, he traveled into the neighboring town. Clad in a baby blue button down, braces, and a tweed flat cap, Blake attempted to mask his nerves behind a cheerful appearance.

The show was a lively affair, with twinkling electrical lights and small flags strung about the large outdoor dance floor. A patriotic banner bearing the words, “Support the War Effort!” was drawn across the stage.

Blake’s spirits were high and his apprehension forgotten by the time their band finishes a bouncing ragtime tune to raucous cheers and claps from the audience. A pint is handed off to him but before he can take a sip, the pianist motions to Blake and the others, “Right chaps, ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. 1, 2, 3-”

Blake is quick to observe a tall bloke, sharply dressed in his sack suit and bowler hat, joyfully twirling two little girls around the dance floor. The song ends and the two beaming men lock eyes for a long beat. Blake would later reflect sadly on how that dancing shopkeeper bore such little resemblance to the morose, closed off man he had befriended in the trenches. He often prayed for the day to come when Schofield would look that cheerful and utterly carefree again. Blake couldn’t help taking to Scho in spite of everything, determined not to let the war rough away any last bit of civilian softness in this gentle soldier with eternally wounded eyes…

_Where are you now, Scho? Have you made it to Croisilles Woods? Or are you-?_

Blake hastily clamps down on the morbid thought before it takes shape, refusing to believe that Schofield is anything but alive and breathing and unwaveringly making his way to the 2nd Devons. But still…it seeps through his mind like poison gas and he wonders if he would be able to sense anything if something terrible happened to Scho. Sitting up on his elbows, Blake hugs his knees and looks off longingly towards the dirt road.

He wishes he could sleep.

The loneliness weighs heavy on him during those dark hours and he bitterly misses Scho’s comforting presence. Whereas the other men had found him standoffish and quiet, Blake had come to rely on Schofield’s emotional stability and relished in the moments when he alone could coax a laugh or grin from him. Blake knew Scho was only quiet because he preferred to listen and observe, and he was only standoffish because it was easier that way. The war had taught Schofield that camaraderie was a cruel gift quickly torn away by the hands of fate. The war had taught Blake that camaraderie was the only way to survive…

_Where are you now, Scho?_

Blake hugs his knees tighter and thinks to a time when Schofield held him close…

It had been a brutal night of shelling. Fatigued and jittery, the infantrymen hunkered down before daybreak as the heavens above replaced shellfire with cold sheets of rain.

His wide eyes alert and watchful, Blake crouched in the mud next to the dark outline of Schofield. He had found him nestling under his tarpaulin in a secluded corner of the trench.

“Reckon the Boche has let up for the night?” he whispers. Schofield doesn’t respond. He’s staring vacantly at opaque rainwater pooling near his boots, his body shrunken and folded up under his canvas tarp.

“Scho?” Blake’s voice is soft with concern. Schofield finally turns his head, focuses his eyes on Blake.

“You’re shaking,” he says blankly.

“Yeah, it’s bloody cold out,” Blake crookedly grins from under his steel helmet and rubs his hands together.

Wordlessly, Scho opens his tarp and brings Blake’s body into his, folding them both under the canvas sheet in one fluid movement.

“Wot-” Blake stops when he sees Schofield’s face, full of ache and naked desperation, and Blake is drowning in those desolate eyes like a rat caught in a flooded crater.

He settles down next to Schofield under the tarp. Wrapping his arms tightly around Scho’s waist, he feels Schofield release a long breath.

Undisturbed by anyone, they clung to each other silently for the rest of the night. And when dawn began to break over the battered and war-torn fields of France, Scho gently removes his helmet to bring his lips against Blake’s. It’s tender and soft, lasting only for a moment, but Blake feels the ground give way beneath him. He feels like he could single-handedly fight a thousand enemy battalions if only to continue existing in that peaceful state, safe and warm in Schofield’s embrace.

Heart racing, he reaches for Scho’s other hand, intertwining their fingers together beneath the damp tarpaulin.

Blake swore to himself he would always look after Scho, that he would always offer him his outstretched hand, a warm hearted lifeline to a marooned man. It was an unspoken promise deeper than brotherhood. For Blake, it had always been an offer of love, simple and true…

As Blake looks up at the misty pink-streaked sky he prays to god that he’ll see Schofield once again. He rises to his feet amidst a flurry of cherry blossoms that cascade down through his form.

And suddenly. A jolt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting closer to the end! This one was my favorite chapter to write, please let me know what you think <3  
> I've been listening to this [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4ar4G7HddsxS1ewLl0vKBU?si=yNUxJntQQhmUQhCBQnF6jA) I made for inspiration while I was writing. It may not be everyone's cup of tea, but I enjoyed hearing songs that would have been popular around that era: ragtime, a little bit of early jazz, WWI songs, and some Irish folk music sprinkled in.
> 
> I am once again thanking @thenightwindow for beta-ing and @datfilmnerd for helping me with British things <3


	5. Chapter 5

A _jolt_.

Bewildered, Blake finds himself standing at the trunk of a cherry tree. Not the one chopped to bits back at farmhouse, but one alive and strong, growing on the side of an elegant riverbank.

He looks about at the surrounding forest coming to life in the breaking dawn. _Could this be Croisilles Woods?_ Somehow, he senses that it is.

Blake turns his attention toward the river… _Schofield!_ His heart suddenly catches at the sight of Scho’s pale face drifting through the cobalt water.

“Scho!” 

He follows along the bank, watching a waterlogged Schofield bob weakly in the stream, struggling to grasp a floating branch.

Blake reaches out his hand, “Scho! Hang on!”

Another _jolt_. He’s ripped away and suddenly he’s standing back in the dirt patch where he died, palm still extended towards empty air.

“NO! SCHO!”

He panics, flapping about, and starts to run towards the road.

“Take me back!”

The barrier is inexplicably gone. As Blake dashes away from the farmhouse, the world flickers erratically around him. He’s untethered and disoriented, running blindly as one minute he’s in the walled orchard, then the dirt clearing, and the next he’s back at the river’s edge.

“SCHO!”

Blake feels like he’s losing his very hold on earth.

Closing his eyes tightly, he wills himself to stay still. Burying his panic, it’s the thought of Schofield, the one person who had always been his anchor, which finally grounds him.

He opens his eyes gradually. He’s standing once again at the place of his death.

 _Scho’s alive. And if he’s made it to Croisilles Woods then he’s nearly there._ Blake is comforted by the thought. But when he thinks of the immense weariness he saw in Schofield’s eyes, how drained and distraught he looked, Blake’s heart nearly bursts with sympathy.

Determined to reach him, he trudges purposefully down the dirt street. He thinks only of Schofield, forcefully willing him from afar to keep going, to find the resolve to continue forward.

_Hang on Scho…_

In their own way, they each leaned on one another time and time again, for strength, for comfort. In life, Blake didn’t think he would ever find a way to repay Schofield for the bond they had forged. He thinks back to the explosion where he almost lost him…“You keep hold of me!” Blake commanded, asking Scho to blindly trust him. And now, in this solitary spectral plane, Blake realizes he had been the one to let go. He lost his grip on Schofield the minute that plane crashed into their world. It only took a single mistake…

Blake continues down the white dusty road for a long while. He passes through green field after green field, seemingly never-ending and barren. He’s not sure how long it’s been. Hours? Thirty minutes?

However…a strange awareness abruptly stops him in his tracks. It’s not like before when he reached the barrier: a block. This time it’s the opposite…a _tug_.

Blake closes his eyes and reaches innately towards the feeling calling out to him. And when he opens them, he’s staring at the tear-stained face of his brother gravely clutching his rings and identity disk. Blake’s blood stains the metal pieces.

“Joe…? Oh thank god, thank god!” 

“What’s your name?” Joe looks through Blake.

“Schofield, sir.”

At the sound of his voice, Blake turns. The relief and gratitude at seeing Scho alive completely engulfs him; it’s all he can do to keep himself standing upright in place.

Their words fade indistinctly as he stares at the two of them, heart-heavy and overcome.

“I’m so sorry, Scho,” Blake whispers, his voice cracking and racked with pain. His bottom lip trembles, “I’m sorry, Joseph.” He left them behind. Left them all behind. And now he was staring down the all-encompassing dread of finality and the hopeless regret of a short life ripped away.

He wanted time. He wanted love. Not just a finite sliver placed in his heart but one whole and full and passionate and bursting at the seams.

“He was...he was a good man. Always telling funny stories. He saved my life,” Schofield tells Joe.

“I’m glad you were with him. Thank you, Will,” Joe solemnly shakes his hand.

Blake, overwhelmed with sorrow, tears his eyes away from his anguished brother. Knowing he is the source of his family’s grief hurts worse than any German knife. He desperately tries not to imagine how his mother will take the news of his death. He tries not to think about her, inconsolable and abandoned, gripping that terrible telegram alone in the house.

It’s too much to bear.

Casting one last forlorn glance at his brother, Blake turns and follows behind Schofield, slowly making his way to a lone tree in the distance.

Blake’s life was a tiny pebble cast beneath the breaking wave of a great and terrible current. He had been swept up by it, tumbling and thrashing, and then sent plunging to the bottom of its crest.

Bound by his sense of duty, bound by the desire for excitement and meaning, bound by societal expectations and eager for the chance to prove himself, he paid for his compliance with the ultimate price. One in which he could never take back.

It wasn’t worth it. None of it was. The meaningless cruelty of it all...

And yet…he realizes that if he never enlisted, he would have never met Schofield. It’s miraculous then, that something as fragile as love can grow in the harshest of conditions, set against the limits of human suffering. Maybe he had been one of the lucky ones after all.

Schofield had done what Blake could not; he completed their mission. His brother was safe. Schofield was safe. Unlike Blake, they were two small pebbles still caught in the sweeping tide, two men still facing its oncoming ripples filled with uncertainty. Blake hopes against all hope that they will endure, that they will find their way home to a better life, one built on love beyond the trauma of survival and death.

Blake faithfully watches over Scho’s sleeping form for the remainder of the day, attempting to forget the sounds of the dead and dying from the nearby aid post. Blake knows their fear all too well. He focuses instead on the emerald blades of grass bending gracefully in the afternoon breeze...on the leafy branches rustling just above him…and on the way in which Schofield’s chest rises and falls…rises and falls…. _He looks so peaceful..._

It’s not until when the sky melts into evening that Schofield blearily opens his eyes.

Brimming with emotion, Blake reaches out his incorporeal hand towards Scho’s. Phasing through his fingers, Blake intertwines them together, desperately wishing he could feel their warmth and comfort one last time.

Schofield stirs awake, exhaustion still weighing heavily on his face. After a moment, his eyes flicker upwards at Blake. _He can see me._

Blake meets his gaze and gently smiles down at him, “I love you.”

It’s all he has to offer now. All anyone has to offer one another in this turbulent world.

Maybe that would be enough…

Blake disappears gradually into the golden sunbeams of the setting sun and all is quiet.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm forever filled with gratitude to every single person who read this from start to finish! I treasure each comment and kudo and I can't believe it took me this long to post my first fic!
> 
> I'm so happy to have @datfilmnerd as a friend to offer guidance <3 The wonderful @thenightwindow was instrumental throughout my entire process, I look up to her endlessly as a writer/storyteller, and having her support as a beta, and as a friend, meant the absolute world to me <3
> 
> I hope this isn't my last story with these boys...and if you feel so inclined to drop a message or talk, my Tumblr is [here](https://yonderlight.tumblr.com/)


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